As we start seeing less of such quaint wooden houses, there's a sense of discomfort stirring in my brain.
Have we completely transformed to the new and stopped listening to the tales of the old?
Will the stories on these walls forever be trapped, or replaced by RCC houses and the struggles of old forgotten.
How the old locks have been replaced, ancestral hopes shattered.
The need to conserve every detail, crosses my mind, as I walk past the old ruins and more demolished grounds.
The blue warm skies that I adore,
Hid behind the city fog.
As the vision grows blur, rubbing my eyes I try to see the stars in the night skies.
The cities provide, the bright lights, but the comfort lies far far away in the 'panthang' in the chilly nights.
Where i can see the millions of galaxies, without straining my sight.
In a few more years, you will not see the same old houses, instead of concrete.
Where once brimming streams could be heard, would be replaced by water dripping taps.
Slowly my heart feels heavy, I wonder where my heritage would be jotted down for we are all running to cities
The ground beneath my feet is slipping, will i ever be able to know my roots in such limited time.
The summer breaks, a week getaway and then back to where i make a living
What's to happen to the houses that will fade, the roots that are shredding, the slates on the houses replacing tin, it's not possible to hear footsteps through the cemented floors.
And I will miss hide-n-seek inside the wooden doors, pretending to sleep as I heard my mother walk towards my room, grab a book as soon as a slight noise was heard through the door.
the possibilities in the new beat the perfect peace you feel at the present - even now at home.
❤️